I Wish I had a River
by precious-passenger
Summary: Why did it feel this bad, leaning heavily in his single bed in his single motel room? The beer was warm and tasted like shit but Dean didn't feel like moving to get a cold one. Honestly, he didn't feel like doing anything. Well, maybe he could go and get that shovel and find the ashes to that ghost to prove that he was loved and he mattered. Stanford-era. Dean angst.
1. Chapter 1: I Was Left to My Own Devices

**Title: I Wish I had a River**

**Summary: Why did it feel this bad, leaning heavily in his single bed in his single motel room? The beer was warm and tasted like shit but Dean didn't feel like moving to get a cold one. Honestly, he didn't feel like doing anything. Well, maybe he could go and get that shovel and find the ashes to that ghost to prove that he was loved and he mattered. Warning for depressing, suicidal thoughts.**

**A/N: For a first time in a long time, I have no clue what to write in my note.**

* * *

><p>Dean Winchester wasn't a sad person. Sure, he wasn't about to burst with joy at every waking minute and sing kumbaya at the top of his lungs, but for someone who knew what was lurking in the darkness, he liked to think he turned out pretty okay.<p>

It was three hours past midnight, officially January first. The start of a new year. And Dad and Sammy... well, they both had stuff to do. Sam was busy studying for exams that would begin after the winter break at Stanford. It was okay, Dean was proud of Sammy. And Dad was… well, surely he had better things to do than babysit Dean's sorry ass. It didn't matter that this was his first New Year spent alone, with nobody to joke around. Not a single presence was aware of how miserable Dean felt at that moment.

Dean should have gone to sleep three hours ago. He knew that. This craziness would go away in the morning. Or rather, would be pushed down and faked with a bright smile. He was sure that Dad would call him tomorrow morning and ask for a report. Maybe if he was lucky, he'd even wish Dean a happy new year when he was done.

This wasn't the first hunt Dean had gone to alone and it wasn't at all the hardest one. He hadn't even gotten hurt. Only his clothes smelled like smoke and his left arm was scratched. The ghost had burst into flames and Dean had no desire to somehow resurrect it and prove wrong, because one opinion didn't matter. No matter how loud it was shouted to his face.

So why did it feel this bad, leaning heavily in his single bed in his single motel room? The beer was warm and tasted like shit but Dean didn't feel like moving to get a cold one. Honestly, he didn't feel like doing anything. Well, maybe he could go and get that shovel and find the ashes to that ghost to prove that he was loved and he mattered.

But the ghost was gone and so was Dean's common sense, which was why he wasn't really surprised when he felt the first round of tears streaming down his face.

_Please... someone call me._

Dean thought, staring longingly at the phone and immediately hated how pathetic he sounded in his mind.

_I fucking hate your fucking guts._

He grunted to himself, punctuating each word with his head slamming against the headboard. The action made him dizzy and it gave him a sick sort of satisfaction.

Face it. He wasn't loved. He didn't fucking matter. Some other hunter would be ganking the ghost and whatever else that Dean had ganked in all these years of being a hunter. Sam proved to be fucking fantastic, thriving and blooming there with strangers. And Dad… Dean doubted that Dad would even notice he was gone.

Suddenly the gun sitting on his nightstand seemed really tempting. He imagined how it would taste and feel, the cold smoothness of his favorite gun in his mouth. Or his knife that was under his pillow.

But, he'd promised Sam. He promised Sammy that he wouldn't do that again. New year… new resolutions and all that shit. Honestly, he didn't care. He didn't know when it happened but over time, he'd gotten to an age when time passing didn't matter. Days flew and months passed and seasons changed and life sucked either way.

Damn, he was worse than John Winchester in a November.


	2. Chapter 2: Many Days Fell Away

**A/N: I really didn't plan to continue this beyond a one shot, but thanks to _chillywinterbreeze_, I'm planning to expand the idea and give it a plot. Buckle up, guys. 'cuz I'm going to hit you with some holiday-themed depressed Dean angst. Enjoy.**

* * *

><p>Dean was startled awake with the sound of a splat coming from above his head. He grabbed his knife from under the pillow and sat up straight, ignoring the dizziness it followed. He noted absently that the object almost hitting him was the an empty pizza box. Strange choice of weapon for a monster.<p>

"I was trying to wake you up for ten minutes, boy. What's the matter with you?" John Winchester asked incredulously, barely a foot away from his bed. Dean stared at him, trying to find out if this was a dream. But the ache spread in his body told him otherwise.

"Dad?" he asked and his heart sped up. What's Dad doing here?

"Yeah. Who else? If I'd been meaning to hurt you, you'd be dead already," the older man scolded. Dean didn't mention that he was planning to do that just four hours ago. Or reply with a "I already am dead".

"Sorry, sir," he muttered instead, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

He wasn't exactly hungover, he'd only had a couple of beers the night before. However, his head was throbbing like crazy and his left arm hurt. Nothing a few more hours of sleep wouldn't cure, but that wasn't an option anymore.

"I thought that I taught you better than that," his father said coldly, before setting about opening the drawers in the kitchenette. "Don't you have anything in here resembling a food?" he grumbled.

That was it, the disappointment coloring his father's voice. It wasn't like Dean was feeling so confident or great about himself. But then the little pieces he scraped that managed to make him feel good would just be completely shattered. By that one thing, that simple sentence. That showed that no matter how hard he tried, Dad thought that it was Dean's fault.

_It wasn't fair._

Dean almost dashed out towards the bathroom, mindful not to slam the door more than it was necessary. It wasn't like his Dad would notice or pay attention, but he didn't want to take any chances. He was out of the bathroom in record time, taking extra time to splashing cold water to his face several times.

"Pack your bags. We're going back home," John said, staring disdainfully at Dean's untidy duffel and the clothes scattered all around the floor.

Dean nodded and set about making the bed. It wasn't necessary, seeing that he was about to check out, but he'd like to leave one less mess for the staff to clean by cleaning up after himself.

"Home?" he managed to gasp out as his mind, being too slow, caught up with his father's words.

This was home, right? This dingy, no-name motel was as home as it would get.

"Lawrence," John said, rubbing his face absently.

"Lawrence?" Dean repeated dumbly.

"Yeah. Lawrence, Texas. Now let's get moving," he said, urging Dean to move faster.

It didn't take more than five minutes and Dean had placed his duffel in the backseat. He was ready to start the car when a figure moved towards the passenger side, opening the door and getting in.

"Don't you have your truck, sir?" Dean asked, surprised that his Dad decided to accompany him. He couldn't control the little flutter his heart made.

"I had to ditch her at Bobby's," John answered, his jaw set and face unreadable. "You drive. I have some things I want to check before we get there," he instructed.

Dean started the car and almost immediately the familiar music filled the car.

_No one will be watching us_

_Why don't we do it in the road_

Dean bit back a smile as he checked the blind-spots in the rearview mirror and and stirred into the main road.

_Why don't we do it in the road_

_Why don't we do it in the road_

The Beatles had always managed to put him in a relatively good mood. Which was why he had the band's cassette amongst his AC/DC and Metallica. And also the reason he had decided to listen to it once getting back from the hunt.

"Sir?" he asked, snapping out of his reverie at the sound of his father's voice.

"I said, change the damn channel. I can't hear myself think," John said, fumbling with the button on the radio and frowning when the music didn't change. Dean supposed, he didn't expect his son to be willingly listening to something like the Beatles in his own car. Mortified, the younger Winchester ejected the tape and switched to radio, letting his father pick the channel he wanted. John busied himself with the buttons and with a smirk, let the music channel he found play on.

_But it don't snow here_

_It stays pretty green_

_I'm going to make a lot of money_

_Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene_

"What's with the depressed chick singing?" John said, frowning at the radio. Of all the days that John could've picked to debate over a song, it had to be today. Dean suppressed a sigh.

"It's New Year, Dad," he reasoned.

"So? No need to get all mopey about it," John said, looking carefully at Dean's expression, which turned to the cool and calm indifference he'd all but mastered.

Dean was grateful that although Dad had noticed, he hadn't questioned the shifting in his mood. They both weren't that great when it came to emotions and were more than awkward in talks. That was more Sam's field. And he wasn't going to have a discussion with his Dad on how this was a song about wanting to get away from everything and go back to simpler times. And not everybody was happy at the start of a new year.

_I wish I had a river so long_

_I would teach my feet to fly_

_Oh I wish I had a river_

_I could skate away on_

It was about someone caught in a situation where everyone is happy and celebrating something and the person is going through the loss of… everything, and it's the only thing on their mind. And Dean just wanted to escape everything... skate away. Or rather, drive his baby somewhere where there are no monsters and a four-year-old's innocence wouldn't burst into flames in one cold November.

"What's in Lawrence?" he asked to distract himself of the unwelcome thoughts.

"A hunt," John said, distracted by the papers sprawled on his lap. Dean nodded.

_Happy Freaking New Year._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Reviews make my day :)**


End file.
